


Crossfire

by overcastskeleton



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Prostitution, Sex, Slow Burn, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overcastskeleton/pseuds/overcastskeleton
Summary: You're one of Javi's CIs, feeding him info about Escobar from behind the walls of La Catedral. Eager to please, you go a step too far and end up getting burned. Javi takes you in, and your mutual alliance develops into something more.Tags/Ratings will be updated as the series progresses.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	1. lay me down (in sheets of linen)

**Author's Note:**

> Here she is, folks, the first chapter! I'm really excited to share this fic with you all, and I hope you enjoy it!!

Javi shows up at your door late one night. You know it’s him from the two curt knocks that signal his arrival, breaking the quiet peace of your apartment. You don’t get many surprise visitors, and never this late.

You’re not asleep yet, just lying in bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling and listening to the sounds of Medell í n that float through your open window. Existing in that liminal space between rest and sleep; when the edges of the day become smooth, and the world around you fades to a muddled lullaby. The knock shatters it though, and jolts you back into the sharp focus of reality. 

You’re not mad, not even a little. You look forward to Javi’s visits, have come to crave his presence like a drug. Ironic, given his job, but you find yourself waiting for him to show up at your door with bated breath. So, when the two soft knocks echo into the night, the effect is almost instantaneous. You roll out of bed with an eagerness that’s embarrassing, dashing to the door on quick feet. 

Javi stands on the other side, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His clothes are wrinkled from the day, and his hair’s a mess, but his face lifts into an easy smile when he sees you standing in the doorway. “Hermosa,” he says and your heart leaps in your chest. His eyes sparkle, somehow still that deep, chocolate brown, even in the hallway’s dull, yellow lighting. 

You lean against the doorframe, holding it open just enough so he can only see your face. “Javi,” you say, trying but failing to conceal the smile tugging on the corner of your lips. “You’re a long way from home,  _ agente _ .” 

“Happened to be in the area, thought I’d stop by.” He holds a bouquet of sunflowers, their green stems tied with a blue ribbon. The yellow petals brighten the muted walls, a splash of color against the dim and dirty hallway. “Saw these earlier and thought of you.”

This time you can’t stop the grin that overtakes your features. “You know my rate is usually a little higher than this.” 

“What’ll these get me?” He asks, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip. 

You tilt your head to the side, pretending to think. In truth, you already knew the answer, that a small bouquet of sunflowers could get Javi almost anything he wanted. That you were lost to him all those months ago, when he’d given you that boyish grin as he sat you down at his desk and asked what he could do for you. That since that fateful day, you’d follow him to the ends of the world, all he had to do was ask. 

Instead, you purse your lips, and open the door. “I think we can work something out. C’mon, can’t have strange men standing on my doorstep so late, or the neighbors might get the wrong idea.” 

Javi hands you the flowers, pausing to kiss your cheek as he walks past you, and the sparsely furnished apartment seems to brighten and expand with his presence. Your dingy place becomes the Palace of Versailles when Javi’s there. He brightens it like a beacon in the night, charging the atmosphere with a warmth you miss severely when he’s gone. 

You kick the door shut behind you, and bury your face into the flowers, inhaling their earthy scent. “What brings you to this side of town so late?” You grab an old jar from the cabinet and fill it with water. 

Javi stands in the center of the room, hands resting on his hips. “Just passing through.” He shrugs. 

“ _ Just passing through _ .” You raise your eyebrows, brushing your fingers over the soft petals. “And the flowers?” 

“Well, I couldn’t show up empty handed, could I?” He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Do you buy gifts for all your informants, Javier?” 

“Just the ones who won’t let me pay them.” 

Javi never understood why you wouldn’t accept his money. You didn’t need it, you had your own motivations for helping him. Deep, personal ones more satisfying than any amount of Uncle Sam’s dirty money could ever be. Then there was that unspoken reason, the one that lingered on the edge of every single interaction with Javi, the one that said that taking his money would make him just like any other client when he was so much more to you now. 

Your fingers pull at the jar’s faded label. “We’ve talked about this, Javi. I don’t want your money.”

“I know, I know.” He looks down at his feet, digging his toe into the stained carpet. “I just feel like I owe you. You’re risking so much for nothing.” 

“You don’t.” You set the jar down and lean back against the counter. “Helping you catch Escobar is payment enough.” 

Javi studies you, eyes lingering on yours like he doesn’t quite believe you. He’s so used to the hidden agendas of bureaucrats and politicians, at this point, that this simple act of benign indifference is almost foreign to him. Still, it’s nice to know that even this endless war on drugs doesn’t poison everything it touches. 

You fidget slightly under his piercing gaze. You don’t like it when he looks at you like that,  _ like a suspect _ , skepticism turning his warm eyes cold. It’s a stark reminder of the man he is outside of your bed, a glimpse he doesn’t show much when he’s with you. “Something tells me you didn’t come all this way to talk about that.” You change the subject, fiddling with the hem of the slip you’re wearing.

Javi snaps out of agent mode in an instant, a sheepish smile spreading over his face. The ice thaws, and his gaze warms again. “You caught me.”

You cross the room, and Javi wraps his arms around you as you stand in front of him. “Rough day at work?” Your fingers trace over the cracks in the faded leather of his jacket. 

“They’re all rough days,” he says with a sigh. 

He sounds so tired, so weary, it makes your heart ache. You run your hands up his back, kneading out the tension you find there, and he groans, melting into you. Your touch, warm and gentle, soothes him, soaking up the day’s anxiety and hardships as you rub at his aching muscles. It all bleeds out of him, spills from his body along with quiet, sated noises. 

Javi’s lips find yours, kissing you slowly as he pulls you flush against his body. He invades your every sense; the soft press of his lips on yours, the faint smell of cologne that clings to his shirt, the sharp taste of nicotine and whiskey as his tongue slips into your mouth. You take more of him in with every breath, and he devours you in turn. He pulls you towards your bed, lips never leaving yours, as he rucks up the bottom of your nightgown. You undress him in turn, fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt and jeans with practiced movements. 

Tonight will end like every night you spend with Javi. A tumble into bed, and the slow slide of skin on skin. Solace found in hushed moans and messy kisses, a well-rehearsed dance of consolation. Roiling waves of give and take that swell and build, crashing into each other until you both find your catharsis. A ritual sacrifice of pain and grief, and your bodies the fiery altars that burn it all away. 

The room is heavy with the smell of sex when your passion finally fades away some time later. You lie on your side, the sheets pooled low on your hips as your attention drifts between Javi smoking at the window and the little sketchbook in front of you. 

He’s half dressed, tight jeans hanging low and unbuttoned on his hips. Already a foot out the door, never one to stay in one place for too long. The butt of his cigarette burns red in the dim room, and the streetlights cast rich shadows over his frame. You capture it all with smooth strokes of charcoal against the thick paper. 

“I see Velasco again on Friday,” you mumble, twirling the pencil between your fingers. 

Javi exhales, blowing smoke through his nose, and you watch it curl towards the window in wisps. “Is it a special occasion or…” He trails off. 

“Just a personal visit,” you finish for him, not quite meeting his eyes. You don’t know why you do it, look away when you talk about your job. You’re not ashamed, not in the slightest, and Javi doesn’t look at you any differently.  _ Everybody works for somebody _ . It’s just business, and yet, you can’t help but avert your eyes as you talk about the sicarios. 

You’re somewhat of a favorite among Escobar’s men, but Velasco especially has taken a liking to you. You don’t know why, certainly didn’t do anything special to warrant such an interest. Maybe that was why he liked you so much, your disinterest in all of it; the drugs, the money, so alluring to the other girls, mean nothing to you. Whatever it was that drew his attention, you use it to your advantage. Velasco was a direct link to Escobar, and each night you spent with him got you closer and closer to the boss himself. 

Javi stubs the cigarette out on the window sill and flicks it out into the dark expanse of the night. “Think you can get him to say something useful?” He sits down beside you, resting a hand on your lower stomach. 

“He’s not much of a talker after,” you explain, turning the book so Javi can’t see the drawing yet. “Just kind of falls asleep. But I think if I keep my head down I might hear something important.” 

He hums, squeezing your hip. “That doesn’t sound like much fun.” 

“You jealous, Javi?” You grin, tongue poking between your teeth. 

He leans forward and kisses your shoulder. “Of Velasco?  _ No _ ,” he answers a little too quickly and you chuckle. 

“Don’t worry, you’d win over him any day. At least  _ you _ actually care whether or not I come.” You finish the crude sketch and show it to him.

“I see we’re setting the bar low then.” Javi takes the notebook from you and studies it. “You’re really good.” His fingers follow the bold lines of your drawing. “Are the pencils okay? I don’t know much when it comes to this stuff, I just kind of guessed.”

“They’re great, Javi.” You squeeze his chin. “And way too expensive. I tell you not to pay me, and you find a loophole.” 

“Think of it as an...investment. And when you become Colombia’s next biggest artist, don’t forget the lowly DEA agent who bought you your first sketchbook and pencils.” 

You roll onto your back, pulling the book from his hand. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a couple sketches of you and some sunflowers to make me an artist.”

“I believe in you, hermosa.” He fixes you with that signature easy-going grin, and you wonder how a person can be both so closed off, yet so caring at the same time. 

A comfortable silence falls over you, and you study him as you tweak the final lines of the sketch. Javi stares out the window, his jaw clenched and you can practically hear the gears turning in his mind. 

You witness the transformation; see the tension creep into his shoulders again, slowly turning him back into stone, the way his eyes glaze over, already focused on faraway things. It always happens eventually, this switch from Javi back to  _ Agente Pe _ _ ña _ . Some days it’s slower, and you get to bask in the afterglow a little longer before the harsh reality of your situation comes back into full focus. Other days it’s immediate; one minute he’s pressing soft kisses to your neck, the next his face is a hard mask, and you can find no trace of the adoration his eyes had held only moments before.

“Do you draw Velasco too?” He teases, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s already miles away, attention hovering over La Catedral like a hawk. 

“Now you really sound jealous.” You roll your eyes. “And for your information,  _ no _ , I do not. Don’t have time, I’m too busy spying for you.” 

Javi pinches your side gently. “Anyone else going with you on Friday?” 

“Me and a few other girls. Tata, the kids. We’re taking La Paisa.” You rattle off the list as if trained. You are, in a way, coached by Javi on the best ways to get information and how to report the facts black and white. 

He nods, rubbing his jaw. “The ambassador’s been riding my ass hard lately. It’s not her fault, she’s getting pressure from the higher-ups. But we really need evidence to prove Escobar’s breaking his deal so we can extradite him, or he’s just gonna keep running his empire from his fucking fortress.” 

“I’ll find something for you, Javi,” you promise, rubbing his arm, wishing you could kiss the furrow between his eyebrows. But the time for soft touches has passed, now it’s all about action. “If Velasco doesn’t talk, I’ll ask the other girls, maybe they’ve heard something.” 

Javi presses his lips together and shakes his head. “No, don’t snoop. You’re getting too eager. If you ask too many questions they’re going to get suspicious and you’ll get made.” 

His words shouldn’t sting. They’re not a rebuke, and he doesn’t say them with malice, but your chest still twinges. Of course you’re too eager. You want to ease the burden he carries with him every day. Would do anything to soothe the gnawing feeling that’s eating him alive. 

Perhaps that’s what makes this connection so dangerous, the emotions you’ve let sprout. There’s nothing professional in the way that you’d recklessly throw yourself into danger for him if it meant that he could breathe for just a moment. Nothing remotely indifferent about how you’d do anything to have  _ your Javi  _ for a few moments longer. It’s selfish, it’s careless, it’s all the worst parts of your id disguised as some form of misguided martyrdom. You’ve crossed a boundary into dangerous territory, erased a line somewhere in the past four months and forgotten to redraw it. 

So, his warning falls on deaf ears, almost as if he hadn’t spoken it in the first place. He might as well had saved his breath for all the good it did you, because the steely resolve in your chest is louder and defies all reason. 

“Be careful,” he says sternly, and there’s a pleading edge to his voice now. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

“Don’t worry about me, Javi.” You lean forward and kiss his cheek. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.”

Looking back, you’ll think it was this moment right here that triggered the deafening tumble of dominoes that would become your life. But the truth is, you were headed down this path from the moment you stepped into the DEA office, and volunteered your services. You and Javi were always destined to crash. 

Nobody plays with fire and escapes unburned. 


	2. you are the fire (i'm gasoline)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven to desperation, you enact a rather stupid plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Javi in this chapter, but don't worry, he'll be back in the next one! Wanted to give you some more of the reader's backstory too. Looking forward to hearing all of your thoughts!

La Catedral is quiet. The loud music has died down, the festivities have ended. The prison sleeps along with the people inside it. Everything is hushed, swathed in the shadows of rest. Everyone has fallen prey to the balmy night, allowed the soothing wind to lull them gently into unconsciousness. Everyone it seems, but you, who stares up at the ceiling, listening to the building’s quiet creaking. 

Velasco sleeps beside you, curled up on his side. His arm rests across your waist like a weight, trapping you against his warm, naked body. You listen to his deep, even breaths, watch his shoulders lift and fall, eyelids fluttering as he dreams. 

You wonder what about. Do the drugs and bullets follow him into his dreamscape? Do the faces of his boss’ victims haunt him, swirling around his mind in a cyclone of regret? Do their screams and final pleas fill his ears? Or are his dreams peaceful? Slow and deep like a lazy river, mindlessly flowing into each other? You really hope they’re not. Peace is not something he deserves. 

Velasco shifts, his hold on your body tightening for a moment. Shadows fall over his face unevenly. Dark, rich blankets that soften his sharp features. You study him, your fingers itching for your pencils.

You told Javi you didn’t draw Velasco, but you do, in a way. The sicario is meticulously etched in your mind, the same way all your clients are. It’s a means of survival, this mental gallery of eyes, lips and noses. You know all their faces, can read every emotion from just the briefest clench of the jaw, the slightest furrow of their eyebrows. 

Each expression is either a warning or an invitation, and you know how to reach accordingly. You have to. Sex work is already dangerous enough, but willfully getting into bed with sicarios, well…let’s just say you keep a small pistol with you for good reason. 

Velasco had been different this time, antsy and on edge. Your encounter quicker than most, and straight to the point. None of the usual playfulness or bullshit flirting that prefaced sex with him. There was only hunger in his eyes, a desperation in his movements giving way to the desire to use and to take. 

And so, you gave, and let yourself be used. You said all the right words, did all the right things, and collected compensation for your time in the form of folded bills. 

You have no problem turning on the charm, giving enticing smiles and teasing touches. You have no problem putting on a show for him, pretending to enjoy his company. He’s not the worst lay you’ve had, but he’s certainly not the worst. You have no problem sitting next to him and stroking his hair as he tells you stories about his childhood. But  _ this _ is the worst part, the boredom of being stuck next to him all night. Listening to his quiet snores as time flows by like sap. Unable to sleep while in the walls of the prison, and wishing you were somewhere else, sharing a bed with someone else, instead. 

Your thoughts wander back to Javi. Of course they do, they always do on nights like these. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s his breath in your ear, his arm draped over your side. The smell of his clean cologne filling your nose and bringing you comfort. 

What’s he doing tonight? Is he home, staring up at his ceiling too, or is he sharing a bed with someone else? Is he pretending she’s you as he loses himself in her body? Does it matter? You try to tell yourself it doesn’t, but the thought of Javi with someone else makes your stomach turn and your chest ache. You push it from your mind. 

More than likely, he’s at the embassy, bent low over a desk as he squints at paperwork. On his second pack of cigarettes and guzzling coffee by the mugfull, scanning endless transcriptions looking for some previously unturned stone. Or on a stakeout somewhere, bored to death while his partner rambles on about this or that. The man never stops working, never stops moving. Constantly running and using the desire to catch Escobar as a crutch for his bad habits. You hope when this is over he’ll finally allow himself to rest. 

And some help you are to the cause. You’ve got nothing new to offer. Velasco might as well be a stone wall for all the information he’s giving you. The other girls haven’t heard anything either, and even if they did, they won’t volunteer anything other than concerned glances.

“If you ask too many questions, they’re going to get suspicious.” The warning echoes back to you, and you know Javi is right But you can’t just sit on the sidelines and watch, not anymore. Nor can you come back to him empty handed. No, you need  _ something _ . 

“Velasco,” you whisper, watching his face for any indication that he might be awake, but he’s not. His face is a mask of sleepiness, jaw slack and lips slightly parted. The dreams continue unabated. 

You inch his arm off of you slowly, eyes still fixed on him. His face never changes, and you breathe out a sigh as you slide out of the bed. Your dress is on the floor beside you, and you pull it over you, foregoing the strappy heels you walked in on. 

Now for the hard part. Navigating the darkness to the door. It can’t be more than ten feet away, but the path to it has somehow stretched into a mile of rocky terrain. Full of pitfalls and trap doors that could swallow you whole, and make your intentions known to the killer who sleeps mere inches away from you. 

You pause a moment, listening to the steadying rhythm of Velasco’s snores, and take the first step. The wood is cold under your feet as you sneak across the room. Every move, every exhale seems to echo loudly off the walls. Your legs tremble, your stomach twists. Tension ratchets in your shoulders, constricts your chest, so that every shaky breath you take is labored. 

All the while, Velasco slumbers on. 

Relief blooms in your chest, warm and light, as you touch the wooden door. You slide your hand down the grain, find the cold metal handle and turn it. The door swings open without a sound. 

Velasco rolls onto his side, mumbling something under his breath, and your heart drops into your stomach. You freeze, legs painfully taut as you wait for him to catch you, ask what you’re doing sneaking out of his room at one in the morning. But the moment never comes. 

Instead his soft snores fill the room once again. You slip out the door without a second glance. 

The prison is massive, a maze of hallways and rooms, all leading towards an outdoor plaza. It’s easy to get lost, spend forever wandering the corridors like an unlucky sacrifice of Minos’ Labyrinth. Only there is no minotaur here, the only monster is a man drunk on his lust for money and power. 

You have some idea of where you’re going, though, have seen the men exit the room after meetings. It’s hard to miss the gigantic oak doors, just off the right of the plaza. You’ve never been inside of Pablo’s office, don’t even really know what you’re looking for or where to search. A book, maybe a list of names. You’re sure you’ll know when you find it. 

The building slumbers on as you creep through it. The stairs exhale sleepy breaths, the floorboards creak quietly beneath your toes. Wind whips and whirls past the wide open windows, throwing the large shadows of the palm trees against the wall. Their dancing branches point accusatory fingers in your direction. Still you soldier on, glancing over your shoulder every few steps. 

It’s slow work. You pause at every corner, glance around like an animal cornered. Each step is careful, each breath is measured. Your jaw is clenched shut, careful not to make a noise, even when you stub your bare pinkie on the corner of a table. Your chest aches from holding your breath, and you’re almost sure you’ll feel the phantom thumping of your heartbeat for days after. 

Every room you pass is quiet, their doors bolted, the inhabitants unaware of your heist. It both emboldens and terrifies you. But it’s too late to turn back now, you’re on the ground floor, and the doors loom ahead of you. Like gates to a fortress, they guard the secrets of the kingdom inside of them, secrets you so desperately want to get your hands on.

And you must be truly helpless, or maybe just stupid, because you’re about to try to rob the most dangerous man in Colombia, on his home turf, right under his nose. 

You take a deep breath, trying to tame your heart which pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat. A quick glance around you confirms you’re the only soul around, and you reach out for the knob. The brass is cold against your fingertips, so cold that your sweaty hand merely slips off of it. You wipe your palm off on your dress and try again...the handle gives way under your grip, turning easily. 

In his hubris, Pablo has left his kingdom unguarded, and maybe rightfully so. No one’s ever dared to cross him in his own home before. You can almost laugh at the joy bubbling up in your chest. 

That elatement is almost instantly shattered by a quiet voice to your right. 

“What are you doing?” 

Tata stands at the end of the hallway, arms wrapped around her chest. She’s obviously just woken up, her hair’s slightly mussed, and she’s only wearing a thin white nightgown that drapes over her small frame. Her eyes narrow as they slide from the door, to your hand on the knob, and finally to your wide eyes.

You jump, clamping your lips together to keep in the surprised scream. You bite your tongue, masking the guilty look on your face as you scramble for an answer. 

“I was...looking for the bathroom. I got lost.” You stutter through the first excuse to come to mind. 

“You’re with Velasco, right?” She looks you up and down, her top lip curling. “Doesn’t he have a bathroom in his room?” 

You nod, licking your bottom lip. “He does, but he’s...using it,” you finish lamely. 

“That’s my husband’s office. There’s no bathroom in there.” Tata glares at your hand, and you pull away from the door as if burned. 

“Oh, I didn’t know, Se ñ ora. I am so sorry. It’s just so dark, I can’t tell one room from another.” You try for a careless laugh but it just sounds shrill and forced. It’s overacted for sure, and you kick yourself. You’re supposed to be good at this. All those years of living on your own and lying under pressure crumble in this one moment.

Tata’s face softens slightly. “I get lost all the time. I’m still not used to all this. It’s so big.” 

You fiddle with the edge of your dress. “Yeah, I uh, I don’t know how they find their way around here.” 

She nods, gaze lingering over yours for a second longer. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. On the left.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, eyes falling to your feet. 

Tata turns. “Be careful wandering around at night. Someone might get the wrong idea about you,” she says and walks back the way she came. 

Your stomach turns, and bile crawls up your throat. You all but run back to Velasco’s room, not sure if you breathe even once. He’s still sleeping when you close the door behind you, completely unbothered, but you bypass the bed, locking yourself in the bathroom instead. 

Only once you’re in the safety of the room do you let your guard down. You sink to the floor, leaning back against the porcelain tub, head between your knees as you try to calm your ragged breaths. Tears prick the corner of your eyes, red hot and angry at your blunder. You wipe them away with shaky hands. 

It was a close call, way too close and foolish. You think you’ve duped Tata, turned up that naive act and really made her believe you had just lost your way. Still, with the edge of her last words you can’t be too sure. All you can do is hope and pray. 

You’ve never been a very religious person, but you find yourself stuttering through a prayer the nuns in the orphanage had taught you when you were younger. The words awkwardly tumble out into the still air like some lackluster spell, leaving a bad taste in your mouth. You’re not even sure if they have power, but they comfort you all the same. 

You stay crouched against the tub until the world finally rights itself, and the pain in your lungs dissipates. When it finally does you stand, legs prickling as the blood flows unrestricted. You splash some water on your face, peel off the dress, and go back to bed. 

Velasco groans, throwing an arm over your side when you climb under the covers. “Where’d you go?” He buries his face into your shoulder and presses a kiss to your pulse. 

“Bathroom,” you answer tersely. 

He hums under his breath, pulling you closer as he drifts off to sleep once more.

You wish you could slumber as easily as he does, instead you spend the night with racing thoughts, watching the shadows bob and weave along the walls until swathes of purple and gold light the sky again. 

The ride home is tense to say the least. 

You sit in the truck, arms folded in your lap as you listen to the other girls chatter around you. They swap stories of their nights, how their Johns treated them, the latest gossip about who could get it up and who needed help. They compare money in hushed whispers, spin up the plans and dreams for the wadded bills tucked safely away in bags and bras. Those with kids talk about the latest accomplishments, the gifts the money will buy, the hope of new schools and better opportunities. For some, sex is a means of putting food on the table, for others it’s strictly pleasure.

For you, well, life had never really been kind to you. Your parents died when you were young, leaving you and your brother at the mercy of nuns and a system overwhelmed with orphans from dictators and U.S.-backed coups. You did what you had to do to make things work for you and him...and then Pablo took your brother away from you. 

Everybody had their reasons, and with the death of your brother, yours was now strictly revenge. 

You’re too tired to join the conversation, too jittery from your lack of sleep and anxiety. So you just let their words wash over you, looking down at the bangles that adorn your wrists. 

Tata’s glaring at you when you glance up again. Dark brown eyes boring holes into your head. They hold your own, suspicion flaring behind them as she regards you, jaw tilted slightly to the side and eyebrows furrowed. You can’t do anything but stare back, frozen under the weight of her leer, your mouth dry and nausea gnawing at your gut. You lift your hand in a small wave, but she doesn’t return the gesture.

Her gaze is broken when her daughter asks her a question. She leans down to answer it, a small smile on her face. But as soon as her daughter is satisfied her eyes are back on yours, sharp and narrow again. 

Tata continues casting dubious glances at you the whole three-hour ride down the mountain. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me tumblr for more: generaldamneron


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